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Child: New and Selected Poems 1991-2011 combines a generous collation of poems from Mimi Khalvati's five Carcanet volumes with previously uncollected sequences. She orders her work autobiographically, telling the stories of her life in four sections: childhood and early adulthood; motherhood; meditations on light; and love and art, circling back to childhood in her celebrated final sequence (The Meanest Flower'). The figure of the child stands at the centre of the book, appearing in many guises: the poet as a schoolgirl on the Isle of Wight, or in half-remembered later years living with her grandmother in Tehran; her two children, now grown up; children in art; and an enduring sense of oneself as a child that is never left behind. Here is the essential Khalvati: exquisitely nuanced, formally accomplished, Romantic in sensibility; rapturous and tender in response to nature, family and love. Her poems, David Constantine writes, 'say what it feels like being human, the good and the ill of it, with passion, tact and lightness.'
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011
MIMI KHALVATI
For my grandchildren
Besan and Kai
Acknowledgements are due to the editors of the following publications in which these poems have appeared:
‘Iowa Daybook’ was written during a fellowship at the International Writers Program in Iowa in 2006. A longer version was published online in the International Literary Quarterly, Issue 2, February 2008.
‘The Streets of La Roue’ was commissioned by Het beschrijf and first published in a Dutch translation in Vers Brussel, Poëzie in de stad by Het beschrijf/Uitgeverij Vrijdag (Brussels, 2009). It also appeared in This Life on Earth (Sea of Faith (SOF) Network (UK), 2009).
‘Afterword’, an elegy for Archie Markham, was published by Staple and in The Forward Book of Poetry 2010. An Italian translation by Eleonora Chiavetta appeared in Poeti e Poesia (Pagine, 2011).
‘Night Sounds’ was published in Poetry Review and in A Shadow on the Wall (Soaring Penguin, 2011).
‘River Sounding’ was commissioned by Romesh Gunesekara during his residency at Somerset House as a response to Bill Fontana’s eponymous sound installation. The sequence appeared in The Long Poem Magazine and an extract, ‘I never remember my dreams’, in The North.
‘The Poet’s House’ was published in Entailing Happiness, a festschrift for Robert Vas Dias (Infinity Press, 2010). It was written at Almassera Vella, where Christopher North runs writing courses, and appears on their website www.oldolivepress.com.
I am extremely grateful to Arts Council England for granting me a writing award in 2009. And warm thanks are due to Jane Duran for responding to the manuscript with such care, Myra Schneider and her group; Aamer Hussein, Jacqueline Gabbitas, Martin Parker, Marilyn Hacker and Alfred Corn for their friendship and support.
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
SELECTED POEMS
I
Shanklin Chine
Writing Home
The Alder Leaf
Writing Letters
Villanelle
Sadness
Listening to Strawberry
The Chine
Nostalgia
Earls Court
Baba Mostafa
Coma
The Bowl
Ghazal: The Servant
Rubaiyat
from Interiors
II
Needlework
The Woman in the Wall
Stone of Patience
Overblown Roses
from Plant Care
River Sonnet
Come Close
Blue Moon
Boy in a Photograph
The Piano
from The Inwardness of Elephants
Soapstone Creek
Soapstone Retreat
The Robin and the Eggcup
Motherhood
Apology
Sundays
Tintinnabuli
Ghazal: The Children
III
from Entries on Light
Sunday. I woke from a raucous night
Today’s grey light
Scales are evenly weighed
The heavier, fuller, breast and body grow
I hear myself in the loudness of overbearing waves
Speak to me as shadows do
It’s all very well
Light’s taking a bath tonight
With finest needles
Dawn paves its own way
Everywhere you see her
Don’t draw back
Light comes between us and our grief:
One sky is a canvas for jets and vapour trails
Black fruit is sweet, white is sweeter.
And had we ever lived in my country
I loved you so much
This book is a seagull whose wings you hold
: that sky and light and colour
An Iranian professor I know asked me
All yellow has gone from the day.
It’s the eye of longing that I tire of
It is said God created a peacock of light
Why does the aspen tremble
And suppose I left behind
Finally, in a cove
IV
Vine Leaves
The Love Barn
Ghazal after Hafez
Ghazal: To Hold Me
Ghazal: Lilies of the Valley
Ghazal: It’s Heartache
Ghazal: Of Ghazals
Love in an English August
Ghazal: Who’d Argue?
Just to Say
Song
Don’t Ask Me, Love, for that First Love
On Lines from Paul Gauguin
Ghazal: The Candles of the Chestnut Trees
The Mediterranean of the Mind
The Middle Tone
On a Line from Forough Farrokhzad
Scorpion-grass
The Meanest Flower
NEW AND UNCOLLECTED POEMS
Iowa Daybook
The Streets of La Roue
Afterword
Night Sounds
River Sounding
Cretan Cures
The Poet’s House
Notes
About the Author
Also by Mimi Khalvati from Carcanet Press
Copyright
It surfaces at moments, unlooked-for,
when the little crooked child appears
to bar your way: demanding no crooked
sixpence as she stands behind the stile
in her little gingham frock and the blood
she has in mind drawn behind her gaze.
Are you the guardian of the Chine?
(Perhaps she needs some recognition.)
Of course she never talks.
She only has the one face – dark and solemn,
the one stance – blackboard-set
and a wit as nimble as the Chine
stopping short at forgiveness
that could only come with time or power
or a body large enough to fit her brain.
Is there something I could give her?
Some blow to crack her ice?
Human warmth to make her feel the same?
Genie of the Chine, she reappears at moments
when I am closest to waterways, underworlds,
little crooked streams through lichen
and liverwort that end so prematurely –
though she is there, like Peter Pan,
or the barbed-wire children who bang tin cans
or the child you would have loved
like any mother, any father, had you been
an adult, not the child with no demands
for sixpences in puddings, pumpkins
on the table or any pumpkin pies gracing
homes that had you standing at their gates.
Genie of the Chine, she reappears
from time to time, when I am closest to myself.
As far back as I remember, ‘home’
had an empty ring. Not hollow, but visual
like a place ringed on a map, monochrome
in a white disc. Around it were the usual
laurel hedges, the chine, the hockey pitch,
the bridge. On one side, the crab-apple tree
with its round seat, whose name puzzled me, which
wasn’t surprising since everyone but me
seemed to understand such things, take for granted
apples can’t be eaten, crabs can be planted.
Writing home meant writing in that ring, mostly
to Mummy. Mummy had a white fur coat
and framed in it her face looked tired and ghostly.
I am very well and happy, I wrote,
meaning it. Sensing somewhere in that frame
a face too far away, too lost, to worry.
And why would I? Worry should keep, like shame,
its head down in dreams. Sorry sorry sorry
I can’t write anymore goodbye love Mimi
I wrote after only four lines to Mummy.
There’s no irony in that. I was six.
Right from the start, home was an empty space
I sent words to. Mapped my world, tried to fix
meanings to it. Not for me, but to trace
highlights someone could follow: Brownies, Thinking
Day, films, a fathers’ hockey match, a play
called Fairy Slippers, picnics, fire drills, swimming.
Even the death of a King. When my birthday?
I wrote at the same time, dropping the ‘is’,
too proud of my new question mark to notice.
My mother kept all my letters for ten years,
then gave them back to me. Perhaps they never
touched her, were intended only for my ears
for I never knew her then or asked whether
she made sense of them, if my references
to the small world of a girls’ school in England
had any meaning. It was the fifties. Suez,
Mossadegh, white cardies, Clarks sandals. And,
under the crab-apple tree, taking root,
words in a mouth puckered from wild, sour fruit.
It is perfect. And of a green so bright
no other green has a say in it, fine-veined
and tiny-toothed, in short, a leaf a child might
choose to love, remember. And later, name.
Children love what is perfect, the best catkin,
blossom with each whisker in place. But sometimes
on a path they will halt and bend to a matted
object strangely furred, spun with gauze but numb
to prodding and hard as rock, neither insect
nor larva, stone nor egg and troubled both
by choosing and ignoring it or failing
to find something on a nature trail, loath
to ask but asking, what is it? learn nothing
of shit too late to name in retrospect.
After chapel on Sundays we wrote letters,
ruling pencil lines on airmails. Addresses
on front and back often bearing the same name,
same initial even, for in some countries
they don’t bother to draw fine lines between
family members with an alphabet.
Those who remembered their first alphabet
covered the page in reams of squiggly letters
while those who didn’t envied them. Between
them was the fine line of having addresses
that spelt home, home having the ring of countries
still warm on the tongue, still ringing with their name,
and having addresses gone cold as a name
no one could pronounce in an alphabet
with no k-h. Some of us left our countries
behind where we left our names. Wrote our letters
to figments of imagination: addresses
to darlings, dears, we tried to tell between,
guessing at norms, knowing the choice between
warmth and reserve would be made in the name
of loyalty. As we learnt our addresses
off by heart, the heart learnt an alphabet
of doors, squares, streets off streets, where children’s letters
felt as foreign as ours from foreign countries.
Countries we revisited later; countries
we reclaimed, disowned again, caught between
two alphabets, the back and front of letters.
Street names change; change loyalties: a king’s name
for a saint’s. Even the heart’s alphabet
needs realignment when the old addresses
sink under flyovers and new addresses
never make it into books where their countries
are taken as read. In an alphabet
of silence, dust, where the distance between
darling and dear is desert, where no name
is traced in the sand, no hand writes love letters,
none of my addresses can tell between
camp and home, neither of my countries name
this alphabet a cause for writing letters.
No one is there for you. Don’t call, don’t cry.
No one is in. No flurry in the air.
Outside your room are floors and doors and sky.
Clocks speeded, slowed, not for you to question why,
tick on. Trust them. Be good, behave. Don’t stare.
No one is there for you. Don’t call, don’t cry.
Cries have their echoes, echoes only fly
back to their pillows, flocking back from where
outside your room are floors and doors and sky.
Imagine daylight. Daylight doesn’t lie.
Fool with your shadows. Tell you nothing’s there,
no one is there for you. Don’t call, don’t cry.
But daylight doesn’t last. Today’s came by
to teach you the dimensions of despair.
Outside your room are floors and doors and sky.
Learn, when in turn they turn to you, to sigh
and say: You’re right, I know, life isn’t fair.
No one is there for you. Don’t call, don’t cry.
Outside your room are floors and doors and sky.
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness
Naomi Shihab Nye
With sadness there is something to rub against –
these, your words, for unhappiness is speechless.
Sad air breathes, at whatever altitude,
recirculating air. Rub it against glass
and the shape it takes is nothing but the melt
of breath. Follow it with your eyes along
the patterns of the curtains and it will trap you
in a leit-motif you can’t escape. You’re wrong.
When the world falls in around you, there are
no wounds to tend, holes to fill, no prop
of stubborn plaster; tenements don’t crumble.
I’ve measured the ceiling for the curtain’s drop,
metres are where I left them. When the world
falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands you say. Like this?
this button? A grey that fell, just now, a trick
of heaven? No, it comes from my green pyjamas.
Happiness sews on buttons. Sadness looks for
sadness to couple with, not comfort. The minute
I lift my head from the page, my heart takes over.
for Aubrey (‘Strawberry’) de Selincourt
I knew it as the poetry I could never hear
without his voice to give it utterance
and the way it ran inside me was clearer,
closer, than the way it ran in others
though they loved it too, owned it too
but owning so much else, loved it that much less.
Owning so little now, I recall how he drew
it out with pipesmoke, through long crossed legs
out of the earth as if he, so long and lean,
were a brook for the vowels to run through,
knocking consonants like little stones
to quaver in their wake. Certainty can quaver too.
And still retain its faith. Outcast
in its deepest spells of orphanhood, the soul
can recall – through memories of grass
and place, a shaking hand on a pipe’s bowl
that indicates a turn of phrase – an undertow
to weather, a companionship that being human,
echoing high in leafy woods, confiding low
when at our lowest, deprived of human company,
makes deprivation sweet to bear. And for
those of us who heard him, in our girlhoods
when girlhood was still a word to stand for
a kind of kingdom, a wreath around our heads,
it was a binding that netted us together